


ne me quitte pas

by troiing



Series: I like me a season 5 full of lady love [1]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte finds sanctuary.</p><p>**a new chapter was added between the original final two chapters (7 and 8) on 7.31.14 - it fits snugly between the two and should have been included in the first place but... oops?  enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. looking for something you'll never find

**Author's Note:**

> A project that's been a long time coming and may be a long time yet - but I thought that, since I finally wrote the very beginning of the fic, I would go ahead and start posting in chapters.
> 
> Consider this a femslash february fic, as that's what inspired me to hop back into writing it.

She doesn’t know where to go, so she follows the trail of a video gone viral.

It’s as good a trail as any, when the mysterious Lady-Bond you met on a little island nation between Madagascar and Mozambique is involved. That little Comoros adventure had been enough thrill for a lifetime, but now Charlotte’s on her toes, and she doesn’t know where else to turn. So she turns to the woman who laughed away her battle wounds, saved the day, fell into bed, and left with a somber smile and a cryptic farewell—and not so much as an address or phone number. 

Charlotte understands that there was more there to Helen than money secreted away. Knowledge of abnormals, as she’d called them, was a key factor there. She understands the need for secrecy, and she doesn’t hold the lack of communication against her. In fact, all that’s furthest from her mind when she first sees the video, packs her things, and finds a flight into Vancouver International Airport without any more backward glances than it takes to cover her trail as best she’s able. 

It feels almost too easy, getting to Old City. 

Her search, on the other hand, is the opposite. Somehow, the people who know the woman from the news know little, if nothing, about her. She wanders the city for two days before stumbling upon the Fifth Ward, and it’s there that a man without pupils looks her dead in the eye and says, oh yeah, Helen Magnus. 

“Lived in the old cathedral down by the water. Sanctuary, they called it. Did her best to keep things runnin’ smooth around here, I guess.” 

“Where is she now?” 

“Dead. Place burned to the ground, her and everything else inside.”


	2. it happens in a blink

“Well done, Henry.”

She makes it a point to use the words more often now—for him, mostly, but she’s also a little selfish, and his grin makes her heart beat at a speedier clip. She’s beginning to savor relationships more, in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to do since rejoining the timeline. All those years without them; she’s determined to suck the marrow out of all her relationships. Will, her friend and equal, Kate, who’s grown so much, and Henry, who’ll always be her son, blood or no.

He grins now, and she withholds the laugh that bubbles as he drawls his thanks, but he turns back on his heel when he’s almost reached the door.

“Something else?” she asks, still smiling.

“Yeah, actually. I almost forgot. Got word from Amar that there’s some chick topside who’s been looking for you. Asking around a lot, you know?”

The smile vanishes with her mirth.

“Peculiar.”

“A little, yeah—but it looks like she didn’t even know we were gone. Amar told her the place—including you—burned. Said she seemed pretty spooked when she heard.”

“Find out who she is,” she says. Surely, anyone who knows _of_ her ought to know of the events in Old City.

“Already on it, Doc. Woman by the name of Charlotte—”

And he doesn’t have to finish. “ _Benoit,_ ” they say in unison, and Helen hardly notices the way Henry’s eyebrows lift at first.

“So you know this chick?”

“I… yes. She was on Grande Comore.”

“No way. The one who helped you?”

She half-smiles, absent, puzzled. She’d given Charlotte no information, no contacts—begrudgingly so, but it had hardly seemed appropriate, given the circumstances. “One and the same.”

“So why would she be here now?”

“I’ve no idea, Henry. But I do know that she seemed capable of handling herself.” She did. She’d been resourceful enough to make contact with Richard, clever enough to disguise her research, and more than capable in the tasks Helen had assigned her in their attempts to free the other hostages and Feliz himself in Comoros. “I want Will to meet her,” she says before she’s truly thought it through. If Charlotte’s found her—or rather, found her trail—it must be important.

“Yeah, I’m on it.”


	3. you're all telling stories

“You must be Charlotte.”

“That’s me,” she says, all nerves. She’s here on the word of that man without pupils—whose name she still doesn’t know, and who makes her uncomfortable, with that grey-eyed stare. And then, she doesn’t know who to trust anyway. But when he extends his hand, his smile is too somber, and she heaves a shaky exhale, willing herself steady.

“Dr. Will Zimmerman,” he says, then shrugs, just a slight movement. “Will. I hear you’ve been looking for Helen Magnus.”

“Yeah. But, uh… the guy who had me meet you told me she’s dead.”

“He’d be right,” says Will.

She realizes that, for a brief moment, she’d allowed a little hope to bubble up. Hope that it wasn’t true. Illogical, irrational. She notices it because, when the fact’s echoed by this man, all of her insides seem to sink down into each other. His eyes cast across her face, and she tries, simultaneously, to ignore the fact that it feels like he’s examining her very closely, and to calm the welling panic.

“You wanna tell me why you’ve been looking for Magnus?” he asks after a pause—invitation with expectation underneath.

She swallows, hesitating for a long moment. But “She, um. She saved me—us—on Grande Comore. I was hoping she could help me now.” But she’s still not sure how much to tell him, so she pauses, taking her time to examine him in his turn. Scruffy. Probably a few years younger than she is. A few younger yet than Helen.

“Why did you meet Feliz?”

She knows she’s betrayed too much a second too late; shock at his knowing cross her face, and he gazes steadily at her, the movement of his mouth telling her that he knows he’s right, and he’s waiting.

“I’m a friend,” he says after a moment of silence, head tilting a little as he extends his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of surrender. “You’ve gotta trust me.”

She sighs, relenting. He can’t do any more harm than she’s already done herself. “I was studying the effects of a particularly deadly virus on lemurs in Madagascar. I… realized how dangerous it was, and I knew it—”. She stops again, not because she’s unsure, but because it all wants to rush out at once. “I gave the virus to Richard for safe-keeping and—I don’t know, I guess biological weapons are still a top commodity among some circles.” She doesn’t quite manage to keep the rising bile or panic out of her voice when she finishes, but she does notice that he seems a little more shocked at this revelation.

Still, he keeps his voice steady when he speaks again. “So you gave the virus away, thinking you’d be rid of it, but someone else came after you for it. Why not contact Feliz again?”

“I didn’t have time to try to locate him, and besides, those—those abnormals found out where he was headed last time; it didn’t really seem like the safest option. I just happened to see that video of the news broadcast. Doctor Magnus saying that monsters— _abnormals_ ” she corrects herself firmly, wanting to do and be right by Helen for reasons she doesn’t quite understand, beyond the pang in her gut, “—were real. The location was there, of course, so I came here. I guess I figured if anybody could help, it would be her.” There it is again—that sinking feeling. This time, she feels like it might all pour out of her, but Dr. Zimmerman reaches out and puts his hand on her arm.

“It’s alright. Some of our old contacts are still around. I can’t take you to Magnus, but I can get you into a safehouse. That’s the great thing about having worked with her, okay? Connections. You’ll disappear. It’ll be alright.”

It doesn’t seem like she has any choice but to trust him. So she steels her nerves, swallows, and nods. And then it occurs to her—

“How did you know Magnus? I mean, were you like her partner or something?”

Will laughs a little, grinning again, but she can’t quite place the emotion behind it. Not mirth, certainly. “More like a protégé.”

“Oh,” she says. What kind of person the label “Helen Magnus’ protégé” makes him, she’s not sure. But if nothing else, he’s worked with her, trained under her. “Must have been… interesting.”

“A real ride,” he confirms, one side of his mouth maintaining the absent, unreadable grin.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, and they’re quiet for a moment. She chews her lip, considering. A safe house. Disappearing. Somehow, what seems to amount to witness protection doesn’t really strike her fancy, but it’s better than some of the alternatives. “Thank you.”


	4. use my two hands, move a mountain

“Check on her,” she says, and he goes with a shrug. She’s more open, he thinks, these days, but this particular convention seems private, whether it’s guilt that drives her or something else. Certainly, she already knows Charlotte is restless in her new home; she has been since the beginning.

“How’re you holding up?” he asks, watching Charlotte carefully in the monitor.

“Oh, six months later, still not _doing_ anything,” she says heavily.

“Right,” he replies, frowning. Charlotte doesn’t like sitting still, and she’s made it pretty clear. He doesn’t realize until her eyes widen a little that he’s allowed a little annoyance to enter his voice.

“Oh—I’m grateful, just—”

“I know.” They’ve been through these ropes, these steps, and he sighs. “Look, Charlotte, I’m sorry about all this. I know sitting on your hands doesn’t really work for you.”

She manages a little laugh at that, obviously bitter, but Will grins along, just a little. “Yeah, no kidding. Look, if I ever seem ungrateful—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts. “We’re good.” They are. If the shoe’d been on the other foot, he wouldn’t have been happy with his situation either.

“I just wish there were something I could _do_ , you know? You’re still doing… research and all, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.” But he’s wary of further questions, and steels himself a little. They’ve walked careful lines before in these conversations.

She’s watching him, and he notices that she’s trying to tread just as carefully around him as he is around her. They’re both quiet for a long moment, and then she sighs. “Well, if you ever have anything for me to do. I _am_ a scientist by trade.”

It must be the fifth time she’s offered; she only does so every time they have these little check-ins. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Look, I’ll let you know if something comes up, okay?” he says, ruffling his own hair beneath his hand. That, too, has been said, and he’ll never stop feeling guilty for dragging her around like this while every other alternative is weighted with impossibility. Let her do their work on the surface? Moving operatives there is tricky enough business without coordinating every step from down here. Bring her to Hollow Earth? Not a chance. She’s best where she is until her danger passes. Ears to the ground say people are still looking for her now, but one day—maybe soon, he hopes, for her sake—they won’t be.

His eyes leave the screen after a reflective moment, and there’s Magnus, fingers twined in front of her, lips pursed into a faint smile. She nods, and Will turns back to the screen, but Charlotte’s already noticed.

“You wanna introduce me to someone?” she asks hopefully, like just a new face would help her monotony.

He grits his teeth a minute, then shakes his head and adopts his best Sean Connery for no reason beyond deflection. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

She’s quiet again, and he watches the arguments form and relent behind her eyes and in the twist of her mouth. “Okay,” she finally says.

“Take care.”

“Thanks,” sounds just a little hollow, and when he cuts the connection, it’s with the most apologetic smile he can muster.

A long silence passes in the room, and he almost forgets that Magnus is still there until she speaks again.

“She’s restless,” she observes matter-of-factly, causing him to jerk his head in her direction.

“Yeah, been that way practically since we put her _in_ that safehouse.”

“It’s difficult, being disconnected,” she says, and she means it rather sincerely—feels a hundred and thirteen years in a weight she can’t keep out of the lines of her mouth for the moment. Sure, she’d cheated the system, taken the risks, but there’d still been that alien nature of her experiences, and the reliving of a thousand mistakes—the absolute disconnect between what she’d known and loved before, and what she was allowed to love the second time through.

“Magnus…” His voice, questioning and quiet, pulls her back to the present, and she finally manages a small smile.

“She’s a clever woman,” she says after a moment, weighing the possibilities, but posing it as an aside.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair and heaving out a breath. “I almost wish we could put her to use, you know? Realistically. She keeps offering to help, and I think she genuinely wants to, and not just because of her situation, but—”

“Then we should let her.”

If she’s honest with herself, it’s always been a suggestion at the back of her mind, but she’s not so selfish as to assume. But if this is Will’s opinion, if _this_ is his reason (though she knows he doesn’t think it’s a real possibility), there can be no harm. She trusts _him_ beyond all measurable doubt. And, frankly, she thinks she can trust Charlotte. She’d kept her head on Grande Comore. Questioned, but not panicked. Taken instruction with readiness.

Kissed her with thrilling sincerity.

And although there’s a brief rush at that thought, it’s just that: a thought. A few brief hours in Comoros pass through her mind, time closeted away with her breath hot on Charlotte’s skin flickering among the other disjointed memories of fire and death and the stinging fatigue she’d not realized until much later, naked in bed with an alcohol swab pressed against her wrist with a woman murmuring, be still—just be _still_ a moment, and rest. 

Will just stares at her—first like he can’t believe that she’s made the suggestion, and then like he can’t believe he gave her the opportunity to make it in the first place.

“Magnus, you’re not—”

The words bring her back, and she frowns. “Will, had I been static those hundred and thirteen—”

“We’re not talking about a century, Magnus, we’re talking about a few more months, max!”

She knows that, in part, he’s talking sense. Still, she snorts derisively at the assumptions in his tone and tilts her head, offering him a look she hopes is meaningful enough to get his attention. “A long weekend away and I’m biting at the bit to get back to work, Will; this woman is very much the same.”

“So to resolve that, you want me to—what _do_ you want me to do; _bring her here_?”

“That’s precisely what I want,” she says without hesitation.

“Magnus, it’s not the same now; we can’t just—”

“There’s no turning back, Will. I know. I’ve thought long and hard about it.” He’s silent in response, and she lowers her head for a moment, but doesn’t take her eyes off of him. Now she not only wants, but needs his approval. A new member of the team, foremost—and he’ll be the one to deliver the message. “Will?”

“What,” he retorts after a moment of silence, looking displeased. At least he’s responsive.

“You’ll explain to her that we do have a place for her in our work—but that if she decides to join us, there’s no going back. She saw those people on Grande Comore. She’s not coming into this entirely blind, Will. Trust me. If she joins us, it’ll be a good thing. If she doesn’t, she’ll go her own way when her current situation ends. That’s it. I trust you’ll do a wonderful job of stressing just how important it is not to make this decision lightly.” Hell, he’ll likely do his best to talk her out of it entirely, and his expression tells her he knows that’s what she’s thinking.

They’re like that for a minute, in this standoff, him with his expression drooping to a grimace again, her aright, spinning the ring on her finger around the knuckle in a fidget he’s already noticed. She knows because he focuses his attention there, on her hands, boring holes through the fingertips that search and search, certain in herself and yet uncertain of so many other things. And she says it again, questioning and inviting: “Will?”

He pushes his jaw forward into what looks suspiciously like a pout; but there’s no going back when he sighs and props himself on his elbows over the desk. “ _Fine_.”


	5. teach me to number my days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to angie (featherxquill) for her help betaing this chapter!

“Yes. _Yes_ , absolutely!” she catches herself practically shouting, but containing the reaction doesn’t even feel possible.

But Will’s there with his reason, quick on the rebuttal. “No, no, no, Charlotte, this isn’t just something you can—”

“You’re going to tell me I have to take it seriously, Dr. Zimmerman,” she interrupts, shaking her head and raising her hands to stop him. “You don’t have to lecture me; I saw those guys on Grande Comore, and—”

This time, she’s the one interrupted. “Charlotte, you gotta let me finish. You can’t back out of this. Not any time soon. If you do this, you’re _stuck_ , doing this. Keeping our work going is risky enough, and it’s a _completely_ different world.” She actually allows him to finish this time, clamping her jaw shut and watching him as he speaks, searching for his motivation in his expressions. “From what I know of Comoros, what you experienced there is basically every day of our lives. Is that really what you want?”

The silence that passes swells and fades with her thoughts. She can’t figure him out. He’s here, apparently at his own risk, and hers too. Why couldn’t they have done this via secure feed, like they’ve always had their conversations? Why is he here if he only wants her to say no? But she’s not saying no. “ _Yes._ ”

“Is that a _’yes, I want to get out of here,’_ or…?” he asks slowly, like he suspects it’s purely the restlessness talking.

She can’t help the insult that bubbles up in response, but quells it with a hard swallow. “Dr. Zimmerman, that’s—”

“Will. It’s Will.”

“—yeah. Will, I do want out of here but… I’ve had six months to wonder what it would be like to do what Helen—what Dr. Magnus was doing. To work with you and whoever else is carrying on her work. I mean it’s freaky, don’t get me wrong, but—”

But it’s equally frightening and fascinating. But it’s probably the only job she’ll ever be able to do again, without worrying about who’s watching her.

But she wants to do right by Helen.

It’s a want that had slipped quietly into her mind in the moment she’d declared that she trusted Helen enough to let her know about the virus. In part, it’s gratitude; she’d saved her life a couple times over, after all. In part, it’s the newscast that went viral. _You know them as monsters, and they very much exist._ It’s the high stakes she’d placed on returning to wherever she’d come from in good time, and the sadness behind her smiles, and the extravagance of a world kept hidden. There’d been a mutual respect on Grande Comore, and whatever it is Will does, whatever Helen did, feels like a legacy she wants to be part of.

“What—what you’re doing _now_ … is what she was doing then,” she says after that span of silence, picking her words carefully, watching him more carefully.

He frowns a little, then nods. “With some changes. Yeah. Yeah, we’re… basically doing what we did.”

“Then I want to join you,” she says quietly, meaning every syllable and every pause. She’ll go wild with cabin fever if she’s kept here, but given a choice between her old life and the one he’s offering—though she can only imagine its complexities—she’ll take the unknown any day.


	6. it happens in a blink (reprise)

Will’s discomfort has dimmed somewhat over the course of the last hour; the grim look first faded to a somber one, and now he actually has a small grin on his face.

And as his strained mood becomes more relaxed, her own thrill grows into dismayed wonder.

A jaunt through the world belowground will do that, she supposes.

For most of this time, she’s too incoherent or awed to speak, and Will seems content to keep quiet, aside from the occasional introduction to someone in the vicinity as they navigate the long trek on foot. They emerge through a heavy door from the caverns they’ve been traversing into a warmly-decorated corridor. No windows to speak of here, and the lighting’s quite similar, but the feel is like stepping into another world entirely. Elaborate sconces replace the foreign light sources of the caverns (though she thinks they must have the same power source, because something about these seems equally strange); the walls are beautifully trimmed; and here and there, the hall opens into a common area, or reveals a door to who-knows-where.

“I—”

That mono-syllable is the only thing she utters until they’ve entered a lift and are rising two or three levels (the controls on the wall are equally foreign, though the principle seems to be a familiar one). She’s been too busy gawking at strangers passing by to say much.

Finally, she notices Will with his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyebrows practically disappearing behind his hair as he stares at her. “This is crazy,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he confirms with a shrug, and she can’t quite pinpoint the mood behind it, though she knows it’s meant to be light-hearted. “So, uh. Here,” he says as the lift doors open, gesturing out into the hallway. “I’m gonna give you the tour, but first, there’s someone we need to see.”

She realizes that he’s probably been watching her for a while, and it belatedly occurs to her that, for all his apparent misgivings, he seems pleased to be able to show her around. He still seems a little unsure, but he also appears to be more open. And—something else. Curious? He’s watching her carefully even now.

“So… what?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him for a moment. She pauses, and he stops too. “Aren’t you in charge here?”

“Ah,” he says, and she takes a hesitant step forward as he walks backwards. “Well, we’re partners now. Everybody still sort of defers to her though.”

She’s almost, _almost_ too occupied in her thoughts to notice that he looks somewhat amused, probably at her puzzlement. _Partners. Her._ The words float through her mind, and she doesn’t quite realize that her feet have taken her through the door he’s thrown open until a gorgeous office appears in front of her.

And there’s Helen Magnus, pristine and whole, with a smile lighting her face when she lifts her head from her work.

“He—Dr. Magnus?” she asks, close to alarm.

“Charlotte.” Calm, quiet, enigmatic. “Welcome to the Sanctuary.”

“I—what? No, no—you’re dead, and the Sanctuary—”

“—lives on, here, in Hollow Earth,” Helen finishes for her, lips falling into a more subdued smile as she raises her brows at Will.

“You saw that news footage,” he starts in explanation, and she manages to drag her eyes away from the woman she’d thought was dead and land them on Dr. Zimmerman, albeit belatedly. She can’t help but notice his gaze seems rather intent, like he’s trying all over again to size her up, to read her. “It went viral despite the best efforts of most of the world’s governments to subdue it. The Sanctuary Network wasn’t on very good terms with the government anymore— _any_ government.”

“So it was necessary to break away—and then to make them _think_ that the global Sanctuary Network had fallen with its leader,” Helen finishes.

“And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve worked for her for more than four years, and I thought she was dead for a while too,” Will remarks. 

Something tells her he doesn’t feel quite as flippant about it as he means to seem, and Helen’s momentarily apologetic look confirms the suspicion. Still, she doesn’t hesitate. “So you’re the head of some global organization for—for people like the guys who attacked us on Grande Comore, but the government didn’t like you, so you blew up your house and moved underground?”

The frown and the sideways tilt of Helen’s head feels token; she remembers the look well. Not agreement, not disagreement. “More or less,” she concedes anyway, despite how wildly imaginative the summation seems.

“Look, I _hate_ misleading people, so I’m sorry for lying about all this, but orders are orders, and we’ve got to keep a low profile for now,” Will adds, palms up in what looks to be a gesture of surrender, but Charlotte eyes him only for a moment before furrowing her brows at Helen.

But she’s rather at a loss for words, and whatever she wants to say eventually is won over by the warmth in Helen’s strange, heavy, _bright_ eyes. “You really are basically James Bond, aren’t you?”

“An apt enough comparison, I suppose,” Helen replies with a broader smile, finally standing up and making her way around the desk to take Charlotte’s hands in hers with a gentle squeeze. “Welcome to the Sanctuary, Ms. Benoit. Will, I’m dreadfully busy with some of this paperwork,” she adds, and Charlotte’s almost grateful for the shift in attention. The grip of her hands is unexpected, and being called _Ms. Benoit_ is foreign any day of the week.

“ _Doctor_ Benoit, isn’t it?” Will asks in a bantering tone, and if she’d not had her attention tugged away from those hands before, the sudden change in demeanor certainly drags her out of her continued daze. “I’ll give her the tour.”

“Mm,” Helen agrees, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling perhaps more broadly than before. “Thank you. I’ll come by later to see that you’re settled in. And if you still have questions after your tour with Will, I’ll be more than happy to answer them then. If you’re joining us, there are a few things you should know.”

“Sure. Okay,” she says, taking another moment to search Helen’s face, like she could convince herself that this isn’t some dream. “Um… see you later?”

“Absolutely.”

“You know, we were stuck in this decommissioned oil well once with a gasoline-soaked helicopter—don’t _ever_ get in a chopper with Magnus…”


	7. all the odds are in my favor

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Magnus.” The title is distance. The door’s tugged open with almost inordinate speed despite it. Charlotte’s tall, but she still has to angle her gaze upward, for the other woman’s heels.

“Hi. Come in.”

Helen matches her pace as she backs away to allow entry. “How was the tour?”

“Overwhelming.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah… yeah, we got some lunch. The soup here’s really good?” she suggests awkwardly, like the compliment is actually a question.

Helen laughs quietly at that, allowing the door to close behind her. “I’ll send your compliments to the chef. The protein’s a local crop, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Local like…?”

“Hollow Earth, yes.” She’s right at home, leaning against the dresser with her eyes keen on Charlotte. “Did you have any questions?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. Dr. Zimmerman gave me a pretty thorough rundown of the Sanctuary, but—”

“But you have questions about me,” Helen offers without hesitation. She’s been down this road many a time—most recently with Will, though it doesn’t feel so recent anymore.

“I—Dr. Magnus—”

“Helen, actually,” she says, and the tension in the room diminishes immediately. Helen’s never actually much cared what anyone called her, save in extenuating circumstances (members of the Nazi high command hardly deserved to be on a first name basis with her, after all). Helen’s lips twitch slightly, and Charlotte favors her lower lip.

“Okay. I… actually, first of all, just… how do normal humans come to run an organization filled with people like those guys from Grande Comore?”

“I’m sure you met some of our residents during your tour, and I assure you that not all abnormals are like those ruffians,” Helen says with another quirk of her lips. "Many of them need our protection from humans as much as anything. Of course, we do serve the dual function of protecting abnormals from humans and humans from abnormals.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m still a little overwhelmed,” Charlotte amends, scrubbing at her face. “But that still doesn’t explain—”

“Dr. Zimmerman was my protégé, and the first talent I’ve ever seen promising enough to take over my work if anything were to happen to me. You’ll meet another young woman named Kate, eventually—and of course there’s Will’s girlfriend, Abby. Although they spend most of their time in the outer settlements and on the surface, respectively, they _are_ quite normal… but I’m afraid the four of you are indeed quite the minority around here.”

“And you?” Something about Helen’s expression invites the question.

Indeed, she seems on the brink of laughter. But then, with a sobering expression, she lowers her gaze for a moment. Out in a breath doesn’t typically occur, but now, the story unravels off her tongue at once. No more secrets; she made a promise. Not to Charlotte, but it feels appropriate now. “I was born in 1850,” she says, allowing only a moment of silence before continuing: “I’ve since taken a one-way trip back to 1898, where I lived those hundred and thirteen years in solitude”—okay, so maybe _no secrets_ is asking too much—“before rejoining the timeline—just before we met, in fact.” Queue questioning smile, arched brow—the Magnus charm that watches and waits while her audience takes everything in, all that knowledge offered freely, without hesitation. She cannot hide; they’re on equal footing now. She doesn’t want the wall of secrecy and the burden of discovery that made growing alongside Will so hard in the beginning.

Charlotte takes it well, for all that she spends a long moment looking and feeling like she’s been hit in the chest. She calculates, searching the upper regions of the walls while she subtracts and adds. “And how, exactly… is that… humanly—or abnormally—possible?” she asks haltingly, still watching the ceiling until the very end, when her eyes fall onto Helen’s face again.

”Would you believe ancient vampire blood?” It’s almost a laugh.

“What I’ve seen around here, I’ll believe just about anything, even if I did just spend six months thinking my new lot in life was to sulk around a safe house doing nothing."

“And now your lot in life is to put those research skills of yours to use here,” Helen replies with warmth, and a gleam in her eye that keeps Charlotte’s locked on hers.

“Ah.” It’s a questionable sound to match her uncertainty. Charlotte wants to forgive and forget; rationally, she understands the need for secrecy and safety. Especially now that they’ve moved house. And Helen is winning, with her heated invitation.

“I’m sorry for the lies,” Helen adds quietly after a moment, one corner of her mouth twitching upward just a little.

And then she wants it more. “No. It’s okay. I get it,” she replies, shrugging just the one shoulder. “I mean, you clearly had your reasons.”

“I did. But I’m also sorry for not giving you the explanations I promised.”

_’Another time,’_ she’d said, and now it’s Charlotte who’s near laughter, the uncertainty and hurt drifting away.

“That one I’m a little more hurt about,” she comments after a moment, lips curling into a thoughtful frown. But just as quick, it’s her own wry smile. “But you did say later… and now _is_ later, I guess.”

“Well. Now that you’re stuck here awhile, there’s plenty of time to make up for that, isn’t there?”

“Never been so happy to be locked up underground.”

A lift of her hands indicates the room as a whole as well as the building beyond, but something in Helen’s eyes makes her drop them with a fierce blush, gaze falling automatically to the floor with nothing better to do than examine Helen Magnus’ shoes. She likes heels, judging by these stilettos, and the way she’d moved in those wedges as easily as anything in Comoros. The realization sends her gaze lingeringly up the shapely calves before she can even consider stopping herself. Flippant remarks about being an old woman aside, she’d never have guessed Helen to be anywhere over forty, at best. Now she thinks on it, those hands and mouth had found places so secret Charlotte never would have guessed they could elicit such pleasure responses, and that… that came with practice. “You wear 270 really well,” she remarks, swallowing against the memory.

For a woman who can more or less single-handedly outwit and outmatch three freakishly powerful abnormal captors—without causing any casualties among the other captives—Helen Magnus has a laugh like bells. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

It doesn’t beg a response, because she _definitely_ already knows. Charlotte’s hardly discreet. But discretion’s forgotten with her eyes hovering on Helen’s hips. There are stretch marks under the blouse—such a human thing; she’d considered asking about them, but somehow knowing that Helen’s had about two and a half centuries to have kids who may or may not have shared her particular genetic gift makes her less inclined to ask. Some other time. Besides, Helen has fabulous breasts, cool cream marked by the freckles that trail down from her throat and across her shoulders.

Helen’s knee is between her legs, their bodies brushing, before Charlotte fully understands that she’s moved from her spot on the floor, and it’s another kiss initiated without permission. This time, however, Helen doesn’t have to pull away before her lips tease Charlotte’s further open, tongue pressing into her mouth. Charlotte’s body moves against hers, and Helen’s arm laces around the small waist, fingers curling into her hair like an old and well-missed lover.

And bless those heels; Charlotte’s tall, but the heels make Helen taller—tall enough that when she’s tugged in close, moving against the angled thigh, a sigh of pleasure passes from her lungs and into Helen’s. Fingers curl against her back, and a movement of her hips has her sucking in another breath.

Except maybe grinding on her thigh isn’t particularly what Helen has in mind.

“Sorry! Sorry,” she says, dragging herself away with a noise in the back of her throat, but while Helen’s hold on her relaxes, she doesn’t quite release her.

“Quite alright,” Helen says, rolling the fabric of Charlotte’s blouse between a finger and thumb and leaning in for another kiss. And then, like this is a given, and she can’t think of any reason in the world to resist: “Go ahead.”

_Oh._

…well then.

There’s no hesitation when Charlotte kisses her again, rocking her hips close to Helen’s body, against the just-high-enough thigh. She remembers the thighs like she remembers the rest of Helen’s body: strong thighs she’d like to dig her fingernails into; she’d like to bite down on flesh and hear a whimper. For now, her hands go searching up the little space between their bodies, round her shoulders, and lock hard on the supple flesh of her upper arms while Helen digs her fingertips into the small of Charlotte’s back.

“Oh god.”

Helen half-laughs at that, nibbling at Charlotte’s pulse point while her hands press across and against her back, but she’s got a special dose of propriety about her; she reacts and invites, but she doesn’t push for more. Moving forward is Charlotte’s prerogative, it seems. She doesn’t hate Helen for it; it could be a mistake, or something else.

But she does take the opportunity to nose her way in, past the collar of Helen’s blouse, and lick—lick from the dip between her collarbones all the way up her throat and end it with a sharp nip to her chin. This, Helen takes as an invitation, and with a moan, she releases the other body. Her fingers, instead, leap to the task of swiftly and efficiently unbuttoning Charlotte’s short-sleeved blouse.

“Why don’t we break in your new bed?” she asks with a hitch hidden beneath her otherwise level voice. Oh, she’s not felt nothing either, with Charlotte’s body pressed against hers, thigh warm between her legs.

“I don’t see any reason not to,” Charlotte replies, easing away, but curling her fingers around Helen’s wrist. All movement ceases for a moment, then she bends to press a kiss into Helen’s open palm. “Lay down.” The command in her voice surprises even Charlotte.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Forget Helen’s power, her control. Forget her age. Forget her graciousness in apparently every situation, and forget the open blouse. Forget that she’s not one to be within anyone else’s command. “On your back.”

Oh, Helen’s not used to being ordered around. She freezes, and they’re there, at a stalemate, until Helen’s jaw twitches and her lips curve upward just a little. “Of course,” she says, and her hips sway as she moves, glancing over her shoulder as she informs Charlotte: “It’s not often people get away with telling me what to do.”

“I believe you.”

“And yet, you’re trying it,” she remarks pointedly, arching a brow even as she turns to sit on the bed. She gives Charlotte a lingering look before slowly, intentionally shifting so as to stretch out on her back.

“Yeah, well. You owe me. I really did think you were dead. And do you know how much it sucks being in hiding for months on end with no real outside contact?”

“A hundred and thirteen years of solitude, if you’ll remember.” She’s flippant despite the weight of the situation—and despite that Charlotte’s suddenly straddling her hips.

Charlotte pauses at that, as if just recalling the fact, and then shrugs. Nimble fingers move to unfasten Helen’s own blouse with infuriating care. The single-minded attention she affords each button requires little other touch and no words; it makes Helen twitch with impatience, reaching for Charlotte’s knee. Instead, her hand’s captured: fingers interlock with hers and Charlotte tugs her upward. She almost doesn’t notice until she’s upright, for the hand on her ribs and the way Charlotte’s rocking her hips again. It’s enough to tug at tender flesh, even through the layers of material, and Helen manages a strangled noise as Charlotte eases the sleeve off of one shoulder. Helen helps a little, but mostly, she goes limp under Charlotte’s care. She wants control, doesn’t she? She gives it to her, and Charlotte notices: takes the time to unfasten Helen’s bra and then lowers her slowly back down to the bed with that same grip on her hand. 

“Charlotte.”

Long fingers, careful fingers, fingers that have long known they prefer the pleasure of other women, glide across bare breasts and Helen’s eyes flutter open again only to be met with Charlotte’s smirk. She’s still grinding, and Helen tilts her hips, body arching into the bedding.

“You can’t do that,” she finally mumbles, fingers splaying across Charlotte’s thighs, then digging in when she tweaks a nipple, rolling the other around with her tongue.

“Why’s that?” Charlotte asks.

She shivers at the cold left in the absence of Charlotte’s mouth. “Not enough,” is the least eloquent Charlotte’s ever heard her.

“Seems like plenty to me,” Charlotte teases. She drags her teeth along Helen’s breastbone, and Helen squirms while Charlotte’s hands warm her breasts over again.

Helen could almost be embarrassed at the heat rising in her—at the grinding of her teeth and the whimper in her throat. Almost, but Charlotte’s fingers knead and search, and honestly, Charlotte’s very _desire_ is catching. The way she’d moved against Helen’s thigh had started the warmth within her; the smaller frame in her arms had wakened the aching want. Now, her finger hooks in a strap of fabric on Charlotte’s khakis, and she doesn’t withhold the gasps and sighs while she succumbs to the impossibly practiced way Charlotte touches her. No more cool distance, oh no. She’s good at what she does, and Helen wants more.

She’ll blame it on a long and lonesome time. On a lack of self-control and Charlotte’s fantastic skillfulness. On fantasy and recollection. She’ll blame it on any and all of these things later, when she’s not taken with the touch that sends her careening into orgasm not too long afterwards.

Breath still hitching and unsteady, her eyes find Charlotte’s face again, and she’s laughing with her fingers curled against Helen’s belly, looking altogether pleased with herself and almost wicked.

“Almost three-hundred with no self-control at all,” she says after a moment. Helen almost wishes she weren’t taking so well to such impossible information.

“ _Please._ ” she says, clipped with feigned impatience and a little real annoyance.

“Don’t ‘please’ me. I’ve been with you twice, and I already know that withholding a little from you makes you come faster than a fourteen-year-old boy’s wet dream.”

“That’s hardly a fair comparison. Nor an enjoyable one.”

“Mm. You’re right,” Charlotte murmurs, weight shifting as she leans over a little. “Suck it up. You won’t be coming again for a while.”

“Won’t I?”

“No.” Fingernails trail Helen’s stomach at that, feather light and teasing, soothing away momentary misgivings with a smirk. “I won’t allow it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very fun game,” Helen says, but her voice is quavering, and what she means is: _keep touching._

“Really? ‘Cause it’s a lot of fun for me.” Charlotte plays along, scraping smooth flesh with one fingernail. “Watching you squirm?” When she shifts again, her tongue flicks into Helen’s navel (God, she remembered, Helen thinks with a sigh) before landing a few kisses on the surrounding flesh. “Having my way with you…” The trail of licks and nips and kisses rises up her abdomen, and Helen squirms beneath the touch. That perfect mouth of hers teases one breast, and her fingers trace circles in the sensitive flesh of the other. “You tasted like sweat and smoke the first time,” she mumbles, taking Helen back to Grande Comore in a breath (Helen thinks it’s no accident, and her blood warms as Charlotte nuzzles into her hair). A pointed lick, behind her earlobe. “Rosemary,” she says after a moment, palming the globe of her breast while she breathes quietly against Helen’s neck. “Now you taste like rosemary.”

“A keen observation,” Helen replies with badly feigned control, following it with a gasp when Charlotte tweaks her nipple.

“No more talking now. Unless you were planning to beg?”

Helen has no such intentions, but she does follow orders: bites down on her lower lip while Charlotte’s trail of kisses moves lower again. This time, her legs are pushed apart, and Charlotte crawls backwards to kneel between them and reach up her skirt. She lifts her hips the fraction of an inch it takes for Charlotte to tug her knickers down, and slow, damp kisses follow their path from thigh to calf. They stop at her ankles—and though Helen lifts a foot, Charlotte has no intentions of removing them or the heels she perches at angles in the bedding. She steels herself while Charlotte finally removes her own blouse; digs her fingers into the blanket beneath her as she casts the thing carelessly to the side, watching Helen with the same smirk. Charlotte moves forward again; Helen inhales deeply.

There’s not even a hint of falseness in the little noise she makes when Charlotte reaches up her skirt to tease slick labia, taunting her clit with the back of her fingernail. Unconsciously, Helen bends her legs to accommodate Charlotte’s movements before her mouth is captured again. Charlotte swallows the onslaught of noises in the back of her throat when she grips Helen’s leg with wet fingertips, then straddles her thigh to press a knee into her center, skirt caving beneath the weight of her leg. There’s a precision to the movement that makes Helen want to scream; her hips find the rhythm, but Charlotte’s lips are close to her ear when she growls warningly: “Don’t you dare.”

That stills her hips’ rhythm to barely a twitch while her fingers dig all the harder into the comforter. She swallows back her gasps while Charlotte buries kisses in the curve of her neck, breath hot on her skin. And then, an order: “Get up. Hands and knees.”

Helen freezes, anticipating movement, but Charlotte’s there, hovering over her. “I can’t.”

“James Bond, Doctor of Ass-kicking on an island with a bunch of freaky abnormals, but you can’t get up now?” Charlotte scoffs, nails biting into the flesh of her ribcage as punishment. “On your knees.”

She never does back off; Helen’s limited to small movements: shifting to roll beneath the cage of Charlotte’s body; hair pushed aside by Charlotte’s nose as she rises. A sharp nip to her shoulder elicits a hiss as she sits back on her heels, back pressed into Charlotte’s chest.

“You taste so good,” Charlotte murmurs, pushing the bra and blouse the rest of the way off of her shoulders in a fluid movement before her teeth scrape down Helen’s spine.

“Like rosemary?” Helen quips, still bouncing between blind obedience and an inherent need for control.

“ _Hey._ ”

It might be coincidence, but Helen gets the sense that Charlotte remembers everything about Comoros—including the fact that pulling her hair is the most blissful of agonies. She cries out at the sharp tug, arching back instinctively and grasping mentally at anything to keep her grounded when Charlotte shoves her shoulders towards the bed again. Those impossibly long fingers enter her from behind, and it’s the painting over the bed; geothermal power and a hundred goddamn generators to keep things running if there’s a fluke in the system; weapons Henry and Erika are working on side-by-side with some Praxian refugees, doing their best to duplicate technology from what remains of the original Hollow Earth settlements. Every muscle quivers as she clenches around Charlotte’s fingers, and she arches her back again, hiding her face in the blankets and the bend of her arms while she rocks, shivering, into nothing.

Nothing, because suddenly, Charlotte’s gone—doesn’t so much as touch her for a strange and uncomfortable span, not until she works up the courage to mumble: “Please…”

“What’s that?”

“Please,” she says again, voice muffled in the plush bedding.

Charlotte yanks her off-balance in a second. Something keeps her from steadying herself; the same something leaves her gasping, dazed at the forceful handling as she falls onto her back, limbs all haphazard. Charlotte yanks bra and blouse away from her forearms and disposes of them as carelessly as she had her own blouse, and Helen lays there for a minute, just lays there, with Charlotte balanced over her. Finally, the other woman’s voice brings her back again.

“What do you want?”

She shakes off the daze. Twists her hips. Meets Charlotte’s gaze with the torturous want pooled at her center all in her eyes. “Finish me.”

“You’d think by now, you’d have learned to ask.”

“Please. Please, I want you to finish—” She bites her lip, bends her knees. The bunched skirt is uncomfortable beneath her.

Charlotte notices the movement, and leans to tug at the zipper of Helen’s skirt, loosing it from her waist. She tugs from the hem, straightening it out before pulling it downward. “You have been good, haven’t you?” she asks, and Helen can’t fathom the croon behind the words paired with the near cruelty of her actions.

“Yes,” she mumbles as Charlotte bends her knee towards her chest to remove a shoe with the other leg trailing on behind, chained together by the fabric of Helen’s clothing. Then, more emphatically as Charlotte carefully removes one article of clothing at a time: “ _Yes_.”

Charlotte smirks at that. “You’re right, of course. Even when I pulled your hair.” The skirt comes off, and she bends Helen’s knees again, resting her feet against the mattress with care. “I remembered that from Comoros, you know,” she murmurs, kissing Helen’s thigh while she slinks in between her legs, worshipping the thin smattering of freckles on her leg with tongue and teeth. “You were so… _stately_.” She breathes life into ashes, reawakening what little parts of the fire have begun to die, and Helen’s legs splay open like the pages of a book for all that want. “And then when I pulled your hair, you just fell apart. I’ve never—”

“ _Charlotte._ ”

She regrets the rough plea the moment she utters it, but when her eyes find Charlotte’s again, the other woman’s smiling gently down at her—stark contrast to the way her nails dig into the outside of her thigh (Helen’s certain they break flesh, and she half-yelps at the sting of it). “Of course,” she murmurs after, leaning forward, satisfied with the reaction.

Helen closes her eyes as Charlotte begins to shift forward, and she comes unraveled, tension fading for relief when one finger, then two slip easily into her. Fingers curl against her front wall, and her lips part with want.

And Charlotte’s voice is sweet, so sweet, when she speaks again.

“Let go,” and her tongue teases past her folds, lapping against her clit. _Let go,_ , and her lips close over the sensitive nub of flesh. It doesn’t take long: Helen bucks her hips once, twice, and then crashes over the edge with her hips still elevated, clawing for a hold on the pillows above her head.

This time when Charlotte captures her mouth, it’s tender; she kisses back, reeling pleasantly in the aftermath with her own taste strong on Charlotte’s tongue. When she feels she has enough control, she pushes herself up to her elbows, sliding back against the headboard.

Charlotte lets her go—follows, in fact—reaching behind her still-shaking body to adjust the pillows to Helen’s benefit. She straddles Helen’s lap again then, but her entire presence has changed. She’s no longer coarse or domineering; everything is replaced with warmth, and Helen’s taken with the light in her eyes when she favors her lower lip and leans in close.

“I’ve been selfish,” she remarks suddenly, noting that Charlotte’s still mostly dressed, and recalling the limits to which she’d pushed Helen herself. She can’t have felt nothing in all that time. Helen reaches for the button of her khakis, giving a tug.

Though she obliges by rising to her knees, Charlotte shrugs, brushing absently at Helen’s fringe in a display Helen very much likes for its easy intimacy. “I was calling the shots,” she says quietly, smirking down at the other woman as she wiggles out of her garments. And then, more sincerely: “You’re alright?” A look of worry flashes across her face, and Helen wants instinctively to pull her in.

She settles for the truth and a matter of fact tone. “You’d have known if I weren’t.”

“Of course.”

“Come here.”

Charlotte settles into Helen’s lap again, and Helen reaches around to unhook the bra, pressing a kiss against Charlotte’s chest in the process. “You could be less coy next time,” Helen suggests, but her tone and the way her teeth graze Charlotte’s skin are far from disappointment.

“I like the sound of ‘next time’.”

Helen’s righted herself entirely now and loops an arm around Charlotte’s waist, her other hand searching out the narrow thigh, kneading gently. “Would you like your turn?”

Charlotte looks uncertain for a moment, then grins almost bashfully—no reflection at all of the dominating woman from minutes ago. “It won’t take long.”

“I believe it.” Helen’s straightforward but attentive: finds Charlotte’s clitoris and goes to work bringing Charlotte toward the orgasm she hasn’t quite allowed herself. “I never thought I’d see you again, you know,” she says quietly, brow resting on Charlotte’s shoulder, nuzzling her chest with her nose. “Two centuries is plenty of time for a few—”

“Flings?” Charlotte suggests, fingers stretching gratefully along Helen’s shoulder, one hand pushing gently through her hair.

“I was going to say dalliances,” Helen teases, nibbling her collarbone. “Hm. I’d written you off, but here you are.”

Charlotte manages to laugh girlishly at that, rocking her hips in time with Helen’s skilled movements. “When I came looking for you, I wasn’t even _thinking_ about… anything like this. ‘Cause sex on the island was about—adrenaline and—”

“Is that all it was?” There’s a chuckle somewhere under the words. She likes the clipped way Charlotte speaks—insists on speaking through her troubled breaths. Shows it by gently dragging her teeth along Charlotte’s breast.

“I thought so. Even in your office—but then you were here, talking about—about being stuck. And you—you do the eye-sex thing really well.”

“Oh, you know. Two and a half centuries of practice,” Helen replies blithely.

Charlotte balks after that, and Helen moves obligingly to accommodate Charlotte’s needs. “I really hadn’t been kissed like that in a very long time,” she murmurs into Charlotte’s neck, and the other woman shivers against her, a little whine caught in her throat.

“113 years?” she manages to joke, and Helen flicks her tongue into the dip of her throat.

“Longer.”

A moment later, she’s gasping for breath, fingers floundering against Helen’s shoulder and leaving a trail of fresh scrapes. It’s not very climactic—a simple rise and fall—but Charlotte sighs in relief and leans into Helen’s body regardless. Helen drags her back down into the bedding, enjoying more than she’d care to admit the feel of a woman’s body pressed close against hers, all breasts and thighs and sweaty damp. She sighs her own pleasure and tilts her head to kiss Charlotte’s shoulder.

“Well, you _are_ stuck here in Hollow Earth with me,” she murmurs after a moment, taking up the previous train of thought with ease while her fingers trace the close white flesh of Charlotte’s hip.

“Sure,” Charlotte mumbles in inviting agreement.

“As long as that’s the case, I wouldn’t mind taking full advantage of the situation.” She’s not talking about using her research skills, either.

Charlotte pulls away after that, tilting her head to look at her, shell-shocked. “You’d want--?”

“I like you,” Helen asserts with a gentle squeeze to the hand she’s moved to grab. Charlotte’s charming in her doubt—she shouldn’t be the one doubting anything. She moves her thumb across Charlotte’s palm before leaning to drop a kiss into her hand. “And I like your company. If it pleases you to spend any more time with this old woman.”

This time, it’s Helen who looks uncertain, and Charlotte furrows her brows in puzzlement. Helen leans forward for a kiss to mend the uncertainty, but hovers; Charlotte banishes it from the room by completing the movement.

“Do people often fall in love with you?” she asks upon withdrawing. 

Helen exhales in a laugh—one note, but a noisy one—and turns her face into Charlotte’s hair in response. Certainly, Charlotte can feel her smile. “What on earth would make you ask that?”

Charlotte laughs too at that, tucking her face down into the crook of Helen’s neck. “It just seems like an easy thing to do.”

“Some would say the exact opposite.”

“What, people whose asses you were kicking?” Charlotte scoffs.

Helen huffs quietly at that. “And more besides.”

“I don’t believe it.” And Charlotte rises above her, on her hands and knees, leaning forward for another kiss.

Helen hums approval, lifting her hands to stroke Charlotte’s sides. “I’m glad you found me,” she murmurs against Charlotte’s mouth. She means it, without question. “I’m glad I could protect you, even if it was only from a distance.”

“Me too.”

“And if circumstances had been different…” What circumstances? So many are in play. She frowns thoughtfully.

“I’d have fallen right back into work, and so would you, and we never would have so much as called each other anyway,” Charlotte asserts, picking one of those circumstances out of the air and dashing it away. She’s trying to banish the subject, Helen knows.

“I mean it,” she says, though she hasn’t indicated what, exactly, she means. She thinks the sentiments are unspoken. She really is glad Charlotte’s here. Safe. With her. That their paths have converged here, now, in Hollow Earth.

“Good,” says Charlotte simply, and Helen’s taken with her smile.

A moment passes, and Helen begins laughing. Inexplicably, unwinding, and lifting to kiss Charlotte’s throat. “D’you fancy a shower?” she asks after a moment. “You’ve made a bloody mess of things in here already.”

“I’ve made a mess?” Charlotte challenges laughingly, lowering herself back down to Helen’s body as if to reject the suggestion utterly, and shifting a little to make herself comfortable.

Helen doesn’t mind—wraps her arms once again around Charlotte’s waist with a noise of pleasure at the raw and shameless feeling of flesh on flesh.

“Your room, your mess.”

“Have to keep it to your room next time, then,” Charlotte suggests boldly.

Helen’s unfazed by it; in fact, she’s the opposite. She holds her close and nibbles her neck. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll lock you out to avoid the trouble.”

“Maybe I’ll lock you in.”

“Maybe you should stop talking.” It comes so easy, there’s no question when Helen twists for another kiss.

“I can think of a few more things to do to you before that shower,” Charlotte suggests when she pulls away. “During it too, for that matter.”

Helen’s exhausted, but she still bends her legs up alongside Charlotte’s body at the thought. “And what about you?”

“Mm. You just recently moved house.”

“That’s right.”

“Stress of standing on your own, faking dead, getting started somewhere else. You could probably use a few good orgasms.”

“That almost applies to you,” Helen quips, fingertips tracing patterns in Charlotte’s smooth skin. 

“Yeah, well, age before—age before something,” Charlotte replies, laughing at herself for the words. Helen rolls her eyes at the old adage, but squeezes Charlotte’s hip fondly. “Seems I’ll be here awhile. You can put payback on my tab.”

“One for one?”

“Only fair.”

Helen catches herself grinning broadly at that, but she can’t stop it or the laugh that bubbles in her breast.

“So what do you say?” Charlotte asks, bringing her back to the invitation with her own quiet laugh.

Helen recovers, exhales heavily, and watches Charlotte for a long moment. “My dear, I surrender myself into your hands.”


	8. something's bound to begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what? no, of course I didn't sneak a chapter in after the rest of the fic was published. Erm.

Helen makes little indication in the days that follow Charlotte’s arrival that she even remembers the hours tucked away in Charlotte’s new room that first day in Hollow Earth, despite her assurances that some form of relationship would be welcome.

So, long after most of the residents of their little sector of the Sanctuary have settled for the night, Charlotte raps lightly at the door she knows is Helen’s.

“Come in.” Not who is it, not the physical act of opening the door. She just invites her in. So Charlotte pushes it open, just a little, peeking in uncertainly to find Helen curled in bed with a lamp lit at her side (the same light source that fills the tunnels and the rest of the Sanctuary, Charlotte notes), a book in her lap, and a look of pleasant surprise on her face. “Charlotte!”

“You busy?” Charlotte asks, hearing an edge she hadn’t expected in her own voice, and furrowing her brows at the woman bedded down in front of her.

“Not at all,” she replies, her own expression morphing to a questioning one. Still, she tilts her head away from the door in a beckoning gesture. “Come. What is it?”

“Well—I don’t know,” Charlotte says quietly, door shutting behind her. She leans heavily against it, understanding that she’s been invited in, but uncertain about approaching. “I guess I was just wondering where we stood.”

“Sorry?” Helen asks, by all appearances dumbfounded by the question, and Charlotte’s not sure what to make of it..

“Uh. Well. I thought you were making it pretty clear that you’d like to… continue our relationship, maybe see where it went. If that’s not right—”

“Of course that’s right, Charlotte,” Helen interrupts suddenly, leaning forward. “If it’s what you want. I also thought my intentions were quite clear.” She leans forward a little more, wrapping her hands around her knees and watching Charlotte thoughtfully. “I’m sorry. It’s… it’s been a while since I’ve done this. Is there something more you needed of me?”

“Well… other than some—I don’t know, verification...”

“Oh, Charlotte, I—” She shakes her head briefly, then tilts it again in another attempt to beckon Charlotte over. “I think we’ve missed each other somewhere in the confusion. I am very much interested in spending more time with you if it still satisfies your agenda.”

“It does,” Charlotte says abruptly, interrupting, she thinks, another thought. She gives Helen an apologetic look, then an expectant one, but Helen only smiles vaguely. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says with a minute shake of her head.

Charlotte drops to the bed at Helen’s feet, watching her for a reaction even while attempting to puzzle through the situation. “Helen if you have something to say—”

“I don’t. You’ve answered the question already.”

Charlotte’s playing a balancing game, questioning Helen’s limits aloud while testing them physically. She leans onto her elbow, nestling down in the bedding, but Helen seems unperturbed by the casual display. To an extent, it’s a relief. “Why are you still being so cryptic?” Charlotte asks, watching Helen’s face just as carefully.

“Because I’m an old woman with too much history,” Helen replies without hesitation. Charlotte realizes too late that she’s allowed the frustration she feels at the response to cross her face when Helen cocks her head and adds: “What? Charlotte?” Charlotte doesn’t respond, and Helen leans forward, reaching out a hand. It’s warm when she touches Charlotte’s arm, gentle but firm. “Why don’t you tell me what you want out of this,” Helen suggests, and when she meets the other woman’s grey-blue eyes, Helen is smiling. Encouragingly, and with something else there that Charlotte can’t quite place.

She caves, lifting her arm to displace Helen’s hand, but taking it before Helen can fully withdraw. Her fingers grasp Helen’s, and she takes a moment to run her thumb along the curved digits while Helen hovers, watching her. “Well,” she says at last, shrugging a shoulder upward as she drops her hand and releases Helen’s. “Sex, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“I—” Helen’s grinning mischievously though, and Charlotte shakes her head. “I want,” she amends, but takes pause. It’s hard to name what she wants, if it can be named.

"Just the sex, then," Helen says blithely, teasing. "Is that what you came for tonight?"

These airy displays, Charlotte has found, have a peculiar and welcome way of dispelling a mood. She has already learned that there is much more meaning there than what the tone suggests, but the playfulness is also an opening for more serious conversation. "Is that what I am to you?” she asks in an equally flippant tone, cocking her head to the side. “An easy lay?”

“Perish the thought,” Helen replies with a false shudder, but leans forward again, almost conspiratorially. “If you really want to know, I don’t think much about sex when there’s not an open invitation. Though I rarely turn down an attractive proposition,” she adds with a wink.

“So you’re lazy,” Charlotte suggests in mimicry of Helen’s blithe airs. “That or just weird.”

Helen snorts in mock derision, shaking her head in disbelief, but with a smile tugging at her lips. “I am 274 years old.”

Charlotte laughs too, at that. “Right. You’re right. You’re an old woman, and most women your age…”

“Mm-mm,” Helen grunts with a shake of her head, grin broadening. “You can’t talk about women my age in Hollow Earth. There are plenty of us here, some more fit than you or I.”

“You did!”

“I know. I know. Different context.”

“Same context, you brat.”

Helen jerks her head, half-choking on a bark of laughter. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been called that.”

“Yeah, well,” Charlotte replies flippantly. Settling down into the bedding though, leaning onto one elbow, her expression turns thoughtful again. “So with this out of sight, out of mind thing of yours though… It’s okay if I just come by?” The continued banter makes her more confident, and although she asks the question, it’s in no way hesitant.

“Absolutely,” Helen replies, reclining back again in satisfaction. “Would you like to tell me what else you’re looking for?” The change of tack is rapid, but fluid.

It’s easier when she suggests: “I’d like to… see where this goes. I don’t know if I want something specific, but I want to be open to—whatever happens,” she finishes with a shrug and a questioning look.

Helen seems satisfied with the answer. “I don’t much care for labels myself. But I confess I do find myself wondering where our relationship might lead. You can come ‘round for that too, by the way,” she adds almost as an afterthought, and the crooked grin returns.

Charlotte sighs with relief, at that. “So, we…” For some reason, despite that the air’s cleared, asking yet something else of Helen feels like too much. Nevertheless, Helen cants her head to the side with a curious look, and Charlotte swallows. “If you don’t mind me hanging around tonight? I mean, I know it’s not the best time, so—”

“No, it’s alright. You’re right,” Helen says, cutting her off, but the interruption is welcome. “No better time than the present to get to know each other, is there?” Helen teases, tilting her head one more time in invitation.

This time, Charlotte pushes herself up, leaving her position at Helen’s feet to lie at her side. She doesn’t hesitate; she simply does—and in the boldness of Helen’s further teasing, asks “How much are you going to tell me?”

“Almost anything, if you ask the right questions.”

“Funny. Should I go research?”

“No. How much are you going to tell me?”

“Everything.”

“You know, that’s probably a wise idea, since I know it all anyway.”

“I—for real, Helen?” Despite asking the question, something tells her she shouldn’t be surprised.

“I had to know that I could trust you,” Helen quips, giving Charlotte an arch look that sends her back to Grande Comore. “I conduct very thorough background checks on anyone I intend to invite into the network. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it all in your words.”

“Okay, you first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about your parents.”

“About?”

“What were they like?”

Helen chuckles quietly, stretches out her legs, and prepares for a long but welcome night.

* * *

It’s not so long in the end. A couple of hours and Charlotte is fit to collapse, but then, she’d arrived late, too. “You need rest,” Helen observes quietly after a lull in the conversation.

“So do you,” Charlotte replies with a yawn, but Helen shakes her head.

“This is rest for me. I don’t sleep much.”

“Right. Part vampire,” she snorts, pushing herself halfway upright. “You’re right,” she concedes, feeling the weight in her eyes and limbs, but unwilling to impose. “I’ll go.”

“You don’t need to go, Charlotte,” Helen assures her with gentle firmness in her tone. “You’re exhausted. Go to sleep.”

“I’m not bothering you?”

Helen’s lips curve into a satisfied smile, and her noiseless breath of a laugh and sincere look make Charlotte feel ridiculous for asking. Ridiculous, but satisfied with the answer. “You are not bothering me.”

* * *

Charlotte wakes to the unmistakable sound of a blow-dryer. It’s early, judging by the light outside the window. It’s never fully dark, thanks to the bioluminescent properties of the fungi that cover the cave ceilings and parts of the walls, but the geothermally-operated lights are dimmed to mimic the solar day. The Praxians had long known, she takes it, the importance of a circadian rhythm to any creature who had previously lived above ground.

All that aside, Helen is up, so she stifles a yawn, stretches, and in the confidence of the previous night eases the bathroom door open enough to catch Helen’s eye in the mirror. Helen smiles welcomingly, so Charlotte trails in to perch on the edge of the high-set bathtub, watching the other woman thoughtfully. She’s wrapped up in a silk robe, her wet towel hanging from a nearby bar on the wall. Her hair’s nearly dry. Without any makeup at all, she’s paler than Charlotte imagined, though she’s not sure why she thought as much.

“You’re really gorgeous,” she says after the dryer stops, meeting Helen’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

“Thank you,” Helen says simply, offering little more than a vague smile as she massages the last white traces of moisturizer into her jaw.

“How long does this take?”

“A while. Bored?”

“Just wondering. You do this every morning?”

“Most days. I clear time for it. It’s one of the few things I do for myself.”

“See, that I wouldn’t have known to ask.” They both laugh, and Charlotte watches Helen’s fingers move from item to item, applying one product after the other with decisive precision. “That all seems like a lot of work to me.”

“There’s a learning curve, like anything else. I find it somewhat meditative.” She pauses a moment, then asks with a sincere look: “What do you do for yourself?”

Charlotte looks thoughtful for a moment. “I dunno. Go outside. Relax.”

“You like the waterfall,” Helen observes, and when Charlotte arches a questioning brow at her, she shrugs. “I saw you there two days ago. At least two hours down by the water.”

“Well, it’s not the beach, or the woods, or anything like that, but it’s good. Really beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it. I hope it’s enough.”

Charlotte frowns, considering, then shrugs the thought away. There’s more than beaches in the world, and that waterfall is far, far better than her recent life on the surface.

“That lipstick you wore at the gala you attended, what, three years ago? Perfect on you, by the way. Excellent choice.” Helen says it with the most flippantly casual tone Charlotte can imagine, and the mood throws her even more off-guard. “Pretty girl you were with, too.”

The last observation makes Charlotte change tack. “So you don’t know everything. I went to that gala with a man from the department.”

“Officially, perhaps. I saw the group photo—”

“Where do you get these things?”

“With Henry’s help, of course. If he can cover my tracks, he can certainly follow yours. You and that other young woman… very much an item.” Helen finishes with a wink, and Charlotte huffs her response.

“You win.”

“I make it a habit. Would you like to do me a favor?”

“Yeah, sure,” Charlotte replies, but her expression says she’s not as upset as the clipped response suggests.

“There’s a blouse hanging just inside the closet door. Would you get it for me?”

“You pick your clothes the night before, too,” she says in a flat, disbelieving tone. Charlotte stands, moving close to Helen on her way to the door. She’s not used to Helen being shorter than she is, considering the shoes she chooses, but she’s got an easy inch on her now. “You’re crazy,” she says against Helen’s ear, welcoming the feel of Helen’s body jerking against hers in a quiet laugh.

When she returns, she holds the blouse out, but Helen beckons for her to hold it in front of her body. “You have way too many clothes,” Charlotte remarks.

"I have half the clothes I had on the surface,” Helen replies absently, moving her gaze between the blouse in front of her and the colour palettes in either hand. “Besides, I might change two to three times on any given day. You get up in the morning not expecting a mission or a medical emergency… I prefer not to chase dangerous abnormals in skirts and heels whenever possible.”

“Well, you did well enough in Comoros,” Charlotte remarks off-handedly, hanging the blouse nearby when Helen seems satisfied with her selection and has begun to apply her eye makeup.

“For all intents and purposes, that ensemble was relatively practical. But thank you.”

Charlotte grins, and Helen shakes her head in good humor.

“You know, after this, if you ever ask where we stand again, I’ll have to feed you to something deadly,” Helen quips momentarily, arching a brow approvingly when Charlotte allows herself to laugh.

“Right, well. I’m gonna go, uh… do my morning thing. Shower. Change. Brush my teeth.”

“Of course,” Helen replies, turning from the mirror again to catch Charlotte’s gaze. “Charlotte.”

She stops, and closes the distance again at the nod Helen gives her. The kiss is quick and chaste, and it suddenly occurs to Charlotte that, while the morning seemed strange at first, it’s become an act of easy intimacy.

“See you at breakfast?” Helen asks, giving Charlotte’s hand a squeeze.

“Yeah. Definitely,” Charlotte replies, watching with satisfaction as Helen nods and turns back to the mirror.


	9. maybe this time i'll win

Charlotte’s sure she’s not imagining the look of warmth Helen momentarily affords her before dropping her eyes down to her desk again. She’s alone, so Charlotte’s not sure why she’d mask her feelings in such a way, but Helen still puzzles her in more ways than this.

“Hey.”

This time, Helen doesn’t hide the smile—glances up again with raised brows and an inviting expression. “Hi.”

“Busy?”

“Mm.”

Stupid question: Helen’s always busy. Still, she doesn’t seem _too_ occupied.

Charlotte drops into the chair opposite Helen’s, tracing her fingers across the lightly worn material. The chair—no, the whole office—feels broken in, but not overused. Pristine, but not unyielding. The whole place does, and she finds herself continuously stopping to marvel at it. She remembers Dr. Zimmerman’s approving looks around the corridors when he brought her here, and imagines she, too, will be in wonder for a very long time. The ocean has a similar charm; she’ll always be in wonder at the waves and its vastness, no matter that she understands the science behind it all as best as anyone can.

And then there’s Helen. Charlotte can’t decide if she’s the same or not. Sometimes, she seems to sag with the weight of years and memory. But then, she’s also firm and unyielding—sometimes to a fault, but in Charlotte’s experience, it’s usually a good thing.

In a month of relatively constant companionship, she’s still not certain. But she also suspects that it takes much longer than that to really get to know Helen Magnus.

“Last night was good,” she says lamely.

Helen’s shoulders rise and fall, and Charlotte’s certain she hears a stifled laugh. “Was it?”

“Oh yeah.”

Helen lifts her head just a little at that, and Charlotte knows she’s looking at her through her lashes. “It was,” she agrees, and Charlotte grins broadly. “I should thank you.”

“For what?”

“Hm… that thing you did with your hands right at the end.”

God forbid Helen use that tone in any other setting. Charlotte bites her lip, then she too begins laughing.

“Show you some more tonight, if you like.”

“Perhaps.”

Charlotte leans back in the chair in the silence that passes. It’s comfortable; she’s not used to comfortable silences, but with Helen, it feels right. Hell, _Helen_ feels right. It’s a thought that’s both terrifying and wonderful. She’s thought she was with the proverbial _one_ before, but that _one_ has never been anything like Helen. Details of personality and wit aside, Helen has a longer history than most—and history tends to provide a much different outlook on the present and future.

That’s not even to mention the length of a future Helen has ahead of her.

The scratch of pen on paper returns, and Charlotte watches Helen work in silence for a while.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Charlotte asks curiously after a span.

“What do you mean?” Helen doesn’t look quite as puzzled as she does inviting, and Charlotte furrows her brows in response.

“Well… workplace romances and all that,” she replies, and she wants to kick herself for the lack of honesty in her reply.

“Ah. I’ll just have to marry you off to someone in one of the outer settlements, I suppose. That, or feed you to a basilisk.”

Charlotte catches herself exhaling in a sardonic half-laugh, and Helen rises out of her seat in a movement that’s sudden, unexpected, but smooth.

“I thought as much,” the other woman says, circling her desk to lean against it.

Charlotte glances up at her thoughtfully, unsure how to feel about the proximity.

“I’m quite fond of you, Charlotte,” Helen murmurs after a few moments of silence.

“For how long?” Charlotte asks, and she can tell by Helen’s expression that the woman knows this is the root of the issue—and, likely, that she suspected it was something along these lines from the start.

“As long as you give me reason to be.”

“Reasons change.”

Helen’s lips part for a moment before she asks: “Isn’t it a little early in the relationship for conversations like this?”

Charlotte stares openly at Helen for a moment, trying to discern the meaning behind her words. When Helen’s lips twitch upward, she realizes that the question isn’t meant to be taken seriously—and that, in fact, it may be more answer than it seems to be.

“Come here,” Helen says, and the tilt of her head is inviting.

She rises out of the chair, and Helen’s arms are warm—her kiss, warmer. Charlotte’s hands find Helen’s neck, tease through her dark hair, and Helen strokes her sides, tilting her head down to kiss her neck.

She’s in the midst of humming quiet approval when the door clicks open.

“Magnus, we’ve got word fro—”

Charlotte breaks away, watching as Helen’s expression transforms until she’s half-laughing at Will’s pause. “Continue,” Helen says, and her eyes rise to the door.

Charlotte turns, trying not to look as awkward as she feels, and Will’s wagging a finger. She watches him in confusion, and when she looks at Helen again, the other woman’s brows are raised in coy question.

“I _so_ should have seen that coming.”

“Pardon?” Helen asks.

“Oh no. Don’t even. I _knew_ you were too interested in her. From the start. I knew it.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Too interested?” Charlotte blurts, and Helen’s attention turns down to her. She looks far too self-satisfied for Charlotte’s liking. “Why you—”

“Conniving witch,” Will finishes. “That’s the phrase you’re looking for. She’s a spider in a web, looking for her next prey.”

“That’s hardly fair!” Helen retorts in obvious amusement.

“An _anglerfish_ ,” Will adds, pointing knowingly, and Helen’s whole body twitches with the note of laughter she chokes on.

“ _Really?_ ”

“Watch her. She’s no good,” Will adds without pause, turning his attention to Charlotte. She watches as his gaze turns back to Helen again in a blink. “And aren’t you on the clock or something?”

“ _Please,_ ” Helen scoffs, arm tightening around Charlotte’s waist. “If I lived by that philosophy, I’d never have a moment for pleasure.

Charlotte finds herself leaning into Helen again, biting her lip, unsure whether she feels like an insider or an outsider.

But—and the thought bounces through her head as they banter—Helen had wanted her here.

“Right,” Will’s saying, and she glances up at him again. “Yeah, well. Congratulations. Both of you.” Although he’s teasing, there’s also an amiable sincerity hiding under his tone and his expression. And then, to Charlotte, he adds: “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Finally, Charlotte laughs too, reaching to squeeze Helen’s hip with her closer hand. Will’s busy emoting in that way of his: tosses his hands into the air as he turns to leave, and Charlotte spins in Helen’s arms to place both hands on her sides. “You are absolutely evil,” she declares, but her body crashes against Helen’s when she leans in to kiss her, holding her sides while Helen’s hands move into her hair, an arm rounding her shoulders.

“What?”

“You’d have left me in Comoros like you didn’t give a shit,” she growls, nipping at Helen’s jaw. “What if I hadn’t made the first move when I got here?”

“You did, didn’t you?” Helen retorts, pulling Charlotte a little closer and guiding her face around to claim her mouth.

Charlotte bites down on her lip, pressing her thighs against Helen’s. “I hate you so much right now.”

Helen laughs, and as usual, Charlotte’s taken with the sound. “So sorry.”

Charlotte sinks into her body at that, the urgency of her touch easing off as her teeth scrape over Helen’s pulse point. “I’m going to do the worst things to you.”

“No complaints here,” Helen murmurs, pushing her hair back as her lips brush Charlotte’s temple. “Charlotte,” she adds after a moment, and Charlotte arches back, watching her. “I don’t suppose you feel I did trap you?”

Charlotte snorts at that, gazing at Helen dubiously. “No.” She means it. “Why?”

Helen shrugs. “It’s a question that’s arisen before. And you didn’t have a lot of options.”

“Helen, you don’t have _any_ idea how quickly I would have come with you after Grande Comore,” Charlotte assures her, again, meaning it emphatically. Helen’s world was fascinating, even if the experience itself had been horrifying. _Helen_ had been fascinating.

“That’s good.”

“You know, if it doesn’t work…”

“You’ll still have a place on this team,” Helen replies firmly, stroking Charlotte’s cheek with her thumb. “If it’s what you want.”

“Good to know.” And she means that too. She’d like to think they’d be capable of a semblance of normalcy, if it came down to it.

“You know,” Helen adds, and Charlotte raises her brows at her. “I very much prefer to think that this _will_ work.”

Charlotte drops her hands to the desk at that, but leans in close, grinning as her body brushes Helen’s. “That’s good, I guess,” she replies coyly, and Helen too drops her arms, wrapping them tight around Charlotte’s waist before lowering her face into the crook of Charlotte’s neck.

“I’m glad you think so.”


End file.
